asionally that it was "rough on us," and a
"tough one." Sailors always have a vein of recklessness in their
mental processes. It comes from their manner of life,--its constant
peril. They learn the uselessness of "borrowing trouble."

Once in the night I woke,--woke from a pleasant dream of home. For
several seconds I was utterly bewildered; did not know where I was.
Then it burst upon me; and such a wave of desolation and trouble broke
with the realization, that the tears would start in spite of all
shame. It was raining on the green hide overhead with a peculiarly
soft patter. The strong odor of burning fat from the fire filled our
rude tent; to which were added the fresh, sick smells from the great
newly-butchered carcass of the walrus. The boys were sound asleep,
breathing heavily. Guard roused up at our feet to scratch himself,
then snuggled down again. The wind howled dismally, throwing down
gusts of rain. It dripped and pattered off the skin-covering on to the
boat and on to the rocks. Now and then a faint scream from high aloft
declared the passage of some lonely seabird; and the ceaseless swash
and plash of the sleepless sea filled out in my mind a picture of
home-sick misery. It is no time, or at least the worst of all times,
to reflect on one's woes in the night when just awakened from dreams:
better turn over and go to sleep again. But I had not got that lesson
quite so well learned then, and so lay cultivating my wretchedness for
nearly an hour, picturing our future wanderings among these northern
solitudes, and our final starvation. "Perchance," I groaned to myself,
"in after-years, some party of adventurers may come upon our white
bones, what the gluttons leave of them." I even went farther; for I
was presuming enough to imagine that our melancholy disappearance
might become the subject of some future ballad. How would it begin?
What would they say of _me_? What had I done in the world to deserve
any thing by way of a line of praise or a tear of pity? Nothing that
I could think of. At best, the ballad, if written at all (and of that
I was beginning to have my doubts the more I thought it over), could
but run,--

"Whilom in Boston town there dwelt a youth
Who ne'er did well except in dying young."

That was as far as I could get with it: in fact, that was about all
there was to be said by way of eulogy. The sea seemed to get hold of
those two lines somehow, and kept repeating them with its eter